In June, Lieutenant Lockwood was sent with a small party to Post Reno, where troubles were apprehended with the Indians. It was not necessary to do any fighting there, however, for the reason that the chief inhabitants of the region were rattlesnakes, tarantulas, and prairie-dogs, and the Indians in the vicinity did not seem to be in a blood-thirsty mood. Returning to the cantonment on the Canadian River, he was depressed by the discomforts of the place—no society and many extra duties—but he, nevertheless, found time and inclination to study the Spanish language, as if determined not to leave a stone unturned in his efforts to make himself useful, or ready for any emergency. After confessing his fondness for social intercourse, he writes: “At times I get the _ennui_ and _blues_ very much. Still I try to preserve a philosophic mind, and when the dark side of the picture presents itself, I take a different stand-point, and thus force myself to see, by contrast, the bright side. I find, and ever have found, that the more occupied I am, the better contented I feel.” In April, 1880, he went upon a kind of exploring expedition, riding in ten days a distance of nearly three hundred miles, and on returning was glad enough to have a little rest in his camp. But, before he could fall into any idle habits, he was ordered westward, with his command, on still more arduous duties. In a letter from a camp near Saguache, on the borders of Colorado, he sent home the following account of what he had seen and experienced: “We left Fort Garland on the 17th of May, and have since been traveling across ‘San Luis Park,’ the ‘Valley of the Gods.’ This is a vast level plain in southern Colorado, surrounded on all sides by high, snow-capped mountains, which always seem within a few hours’ travel, and yet are miles and miles away. When one considers that Blanco Peak is over fourteen thousand feet above the sea-level, one does not wonder that it is very plainly seen from where I am now writing. This Paradise of the Gods is some two hundred miles long by over sixty across, and is a veritable desert. I have met nothing like it outside of Arizona. The vegetation consists of greasewood and sage-brush—sometimes not even this; the irrigation-ditches that one meets near the few streams seem hardly able to produce a feeble, stunted grass. For miles and miles, all is pulverized dust, which, blown by the winds in blinding clouds, covers everything like the ashes of a volcano. Night before last one of these _pleasant_ zephyrs blew down several of the tents, and filled the air so thickly with dust, that several of the command, who had their hats blown off, were unable to find or recover them. They say it sometimes rains here, but I very much doubt it. The few ranches we have encountered are on streams descending from the mountains, which sink in the plain after running a short distance; and bordering them are the squalid adobe houses, the only habitations in the country.